Restraint
by Walter
Summary: Missing scene(s) from The Gamble. What exactly happened between Ryan’s fight in juvenile hall and the moment when Sandy found him, safe and sound, back in the Cohen house?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Several lines of dialogue and two scenes were taken directly from the episode The Gamble. As far as I'm concerned, the long-sleeved jumpsuit and Safe-T shoes belong to Maud.

Summary: Missing scene(s) from The Gamble. What exactly happened between Ryan's fight in juvenile hall and the moment when Sandy found him, safe and sound, back in the Cohen house?

Author's notes: I can't begin to give enough credit to Maud, my amazing (and very demanding, but in a good way!) beta, for her brilliant, always insightful and very patient help with this story. Thanks also to AKA, who offered some great advice and lots of encouragement. And, of course, thank you to the regular posters in the Ryan thread at TWoP. For better or worse, this story never would have happened without them.

****

Chapter 1

The shoes came without laces in juvenile hall. Not for the first time, Ryan wondered what it would take for a kid locked up in juvie to hang himself with his own shoelaces. He knew that kids outside, kids in the real world or in places like Newport, sometimes killed themselves over the smallest injustices—broken hearts or bad grades or divorced parents or relentless teasing at school. Ryan didn't begrudge them their personal tragedies. But he also knew that it would take more than years of being beaten and neglected by his own family to drive him to kill himself with his own shoelaces. What it would actually take wasn't a question he was about to consider, especially not now.

Ryan realized he was staring at his shoes again, and glanced back at the book in his hands. His concentration was blown. He'd barely been able to form a complete thought in three days. It didn't help that in this bleak, windowless recreation room, where the folding chairs were bent from being kicked too many times and the one sofa was so dirty it felt moist, the noises came from all sides, like an assault. The television was turned up too loud, and the other boys were alternately cheering and swearing at the game. Ryan sat to the side, alone, as far as he could get away from the television without drawing attention to himself as someone who refused to join. They were watching basketball, two teams that Ryan didn't recognize. He wasn't much of a sports fan.

Ryan swept a hand over his eyes and blinked tiredly. The overly loud TV was doing nothing for nerves that were already frayed from too little sleep and too much thinking. He looked down at the book, trying one more time to focus on the words, and turned a page. The words didn't match up with what he'd just read, so he flipped back a page, flipped forward, and sighed. This copy of Huckleberry Finn, borrowed from the makeshift library that consisted of exactly one bookcase in the back of the rec room, wasn't just missing the cover. Pages 34-42 had been ripped out too. He got up to return the book to the so-called library and try to find something to read that hadn't been destroyed.

"Atwood. Clemmins. Martinez. Ruiz."

Ryan paused at his name and turned his head toward the guard standing at the doorway, a clipboard in his hand. When he saw three other boys get up and approach the guard, he followed, tucking the book under his arm.

"You've all got visitors. Report to the family center in 5 minutes."

Ryan wanted to ask who would be visiting him, but none of the other boys spoke up, and the guard left without another word. He returned the book to the library, then waited for the three other boys to leave before he followed behind them to the family center, where all visits—even if no family was involved, he thought bitterly—took place.

As he walked past gates and cages where kids mingled in small groups and everyone avoided eye contact, Ryan tried to figure out who would visit him. He'd been locked up for three days, and his only visitor had been Mr. Cohen. It was too soon for another meeting with his lawyer, and certainly none of Ryan's family would be visiting him. Ryan wasn't sure that he wanted to see anybody, or rather that he wanted anybody to see him, like this. But his curiosity was more compelling than his shame, and anyway, he would jump at any excuse to break away from the rest of the kids, even for a few minutes.

He was cautious as he walked into the family center, and when he swept the area with his eyes he saw, in the corner, the boy who had attacked him that morning in the cafeteria. The other boy didn't seem to notice him, and Ryan took a seat in the middle of the room at the only table available. He glanced to his right, and felt his stomach twist painfully when he saw Seth Cohen.

Ryan forced his face to remain impassive even as he felt his heart racing and his throat closing up, making it difficult to breathe. When Seth waved, Ryan was barely able to pick up an arm and wave back. Mrs. Cohen was with him. Ryan wanted to get up and leave, walk out before they could sit with him and ask him questions. He wanted to push back from the table and run. He was tired and hungry and pissed off and he could not face them right now.

Seth walked over to the table while Mrs. Cohen signed them in, and Ryan  
looked away just as he sat down.

"Hey," Seth said. Ryan looked back over his shoulder, at the other kids with their families. "What happened to your neck?"

Ryan shrugged and glanced the other way, feeling exposed and hating it.

"Nothing."

"You okay?"

Ryan nearly laughed at the question. He was about as far from okay as he'd ever been.

"Great."

Mrs. Cohen was standing behind him now, refusing to sit with him. She didn't say hello, didn't so much as nod in his direction. He didn't need to look at her to feel her apprehension. She didn't want to be there, not visiting this kid who had caused nothing but trouble for her family. He swung his eyes to her, back to Seth, to his hands, to the table. He didn't know where to look or what was expected of him. Why they were even here.

"So I'm sorry the plan didn't work," Seth said. "I thought I had it figured out. I thought you were safe. I was wrong."

Ryan was barely listening to the words. The last time he'd seen Seth he'd been beaten and terrified and full of a terrible shame and guilt for what he'd done to the Cohens. Ryan hadn't even been able to look at Seth then. Now Seth was talking about blame and forgiveness and Ryan couldn't begin to process any of it. His head was buzzing, and he could feel Mrs. Cohen still standing behind him.

"Hey, what's the matter, huh? Give me a smile."

It was the boy from the cafeteria, the one with the fork. Ryan saw him from the corner of his eye, saw that he was watching Mrs. Cohen. He felt his legs tense under the table. He took a deep breath, held it, turned back to Seth. Seth was saying something about Marissa now, but Ryan couldn't concentrate on that. He saw Seth stumbling, searching for words, anything to say to break up the tension.

"You got a nice swerve on you, lady. You fine."

This wasn't going to stop.

"Hey. Leave her alone," Ryan called out. He didn't look back. He didn't want to start anything. But he couldn't let it go.

"Ryan, it's okay," Mrs. Cohen said from behind him. She seemed confident, in control. He wasn't.

"You jokin'? Is this your little honey?" Ryan could hear the other boy approaching now, walking behind him. "C'mere, bitch, I wanna get a good look at you."

"Seth, let's go. Now." Mrs. Cohen. She was worried. This was wrong.

"Uh, guard." Seth was confused. Ryan focused, felt his shoulders tense.

"I only need like two minutes."

"Leave her alone," Ryan said, a warning.

"Seth. Now." Mrs. Cohen was panicked now, or close to it.

"What you gonna do about it?"

Ryan bolted, no thought, no plan. On instinct he led with his shoulder, pinning the other boy to the wall with his body. He held him there for just a second before he lost the upper hand. Ryan was shoved to the floor, scrambling for balance, to get his hands up to fight, kicking to get away. The other boy was on top and they were flying at each other and nothing else mattered. He could hear people yelling, hear his own grunts as fists landed on his face, his chest, his stomach, and it didn't matter.

Then the guards were there, pulling them apart, and Ryan struggled, fought the thick arms over his chest. He wasn't done, not even close to it. He lunged at the other boy, his arms flailing as he tried to make contact, desperate to hit anything. He felt his feet lifted off the ground and he kicked. The room was a blur of colors and shapes and sounds that didn't make any sense and all he wanted was something to get in his way so he could kick or hit or just run at it, but there was nothing left.

So finally he gave in. And when they dragged him past Seth and Mrs. Cohen, where they were huddled at the edge of the family center, he looked away, terrified that they would see the raw emotion on his face.

+++++

As soon as they were out of the family center the guard pushed Ryan against a wall, one arm pressed into the small of his back and the other against the back of his neck, holding him still while the gates slid shut. Ryan planted his hands on the wall on either side of his body, pushing back to try to gain some leverage against the guard. His chest felt constricted as he panted and he closed his eyes briefly, pressing his cheek and forehead into the concrete. When he opened his eyes again, to his left he could see the other boy, still struggling against the guard, in the same position as Ryan several feet away. A new guard came up behind Ryan and pulled his arms back, clicking the handcuffs in place, and Ryan calmed himself immediately. It was out of his hands now. He was breathing hard and his heart was pumping so fast he could feel it in his chest and he was shaking all over. But he was in control. A guard yanked on his arms so he stumbled backwards, and then led him down the hall without a word. As they walked past the other boy, he glared at Ryan and moved his head as though to spit or yell, but was quickly shoved back against the wall. Ryan stared at his feet as they walked on.

He could still feel the thrill and rage of the fight, boiling just below the surface and throbbing at his temples and in his fists. But he held himself very still as they walked, thinking only of breathing and of the floor that needed to be mopped and the way the handcuffs felt cool and heavy around his wrists. They turned two corners and stopped halfway down an empty hall, where the guard pushed him into a room with a soft shove on the back. The handcuffs were removed, and then Ryan heard the door lock behind him.

The room was off-white and clean, but the walls were faded and bore the marks of years of abuse—scuff marks on the floors, undoubtedly from kids who had been forced to stay there, and sections of wall that clearly had been patched up and repaired from kicks or punches. It was empty inside, save for a security camera near the door and a bench that jutted out from one wall. Ryan went straight to the bench, where he sat with his legs folded to his chest and his back pressed into a corner.

It was too bright in there, with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He folded himself away from the camera. He tried not to think about it, the people watching him.

Ryan thought he'd never been so tired in his life. He wasn't entirely sure when he'd last had a full night's sleep. Certainly not since being brought back to juvie. He balled his hands into fists and rubbed at dry, itchy eyes. He wanted nothing more than to drop his head into his hands and sleep, just forget about this day—or hell, this life—for a few hours. But there was the adrenaline still racing through him from the fight, and that electric buzz from the ceiling and the red light from the camera blinking at him, watching.

His face hurt and his ribs ached and he had a headache that throbbed behind his eyes. He was tired and his legs and arms felt like dead weight, too heavy to lift. But between the aches and the exhaustion he couldn't think straight, and that was a good thing.

He rubbed his eyes again and when he lowered his hands to cross them over his knees, he saw that he was still shaking. He'd thought that if he could huddle in the corner, make himself small again, rest his legs and close his eyes, maybe he could get his body back under control. It wasn't working. Not yet. He lowered his head to his hands and let his eyelids slide shut, but when his body jumped beneath his skin and his thoughts continued to cartwheel around his head, he gave up on trying to sleep and stared down at his feet instead. At the shoes with no laces. Ryan lifted his head and without even thinking banged it once, hard against the wall behind him. He saw stars flash at the edge of his vision and his eyes watered.

It felt good. So when an image of Seth—innocent Seth, too kind for his own good, apologizing for the trouble he'd caused—jumped unexpected into his thoughts, Ryan pounded his fist into the wall. He saw Mrs. Cohen, tugging at her rings, hands fluttering at her chest, and he punched again. Mr. Cohen, telling Ryan he shouldn't have run away, that he could have been killed. Another punch. Ryan clutched his hand to his chest. He was breathing heavy again and his vision blurred as his eyes flooded with tears, but he wasn't shaking and he wasn't thinking. Ryan looked down at his hand; the knuckles were red and already swelling but not bloodied. He let the too-long sleeves of his jumpsuit fall over his hands, which he balled into fists so they nearly disappeared beneath the coarse blue fabric. He folded his arms over his knees and dropped his head onto his hands. He still couldn't sleep, but at least he wasn't shaking anymore. He would get through this.

+++++

Ryan had no way of knowing how much time had passed before the door clicked open and the same guard who had brought him there walked back in. He nodded at Ryan and told him to get up, moving his hand in a circle so that Ryan knew to turn around and place his arms behind him for the handcuffs. After sitting so long in one position, he didn't mind standing with his arms behind his back. He resisted the urge to stretch or even roll his shoulders and work out a knot in his neck. Without a word, Ryan allowed the guard to walk him out of the room.

They walked away from the main detention center, Ryan trying to keep a half step ahead so the guard would not need to prod him along. He knew immediately that they were headed to see his parole officer. It wasn't a meeting Ryan was looking forward to, but it also wasn't unexpected and he wasn't particularly worried. They had told him when he'd first been admitted what kind of punishments met kids who screwed up in juvie. He was facing limited free time in the recreation area or not being allowed school privileges for a few days. Maybe they would take away his copy of Huck Finn. In other words, he wasn't too worried about the consequences. When Ryan and the guard stopped at the door that led to his PO's office, Ryan dropped his head and consciously forced his hands, which had balled themselves into fists behind him, to relax.

"Atwood. Come in."

Mr. Little barely looked up from his desk as Ryan was hustled into the office. Despite the name, the parole officer was a large, bearded man who seemed out of place in the tiny closet of an office, where he was wedged between a desk stacked high with papers and three file cabinets that looked ready to topple. Mr. Little's tie was loose at the neck, his sleeves were rolled up, and Ryan could see even from across the desk that his glasses were dirty.

The guard unlocked Ryan's hands and left the room without a word. Ryan waited for a nod from Mr. Little before he sat in the folding chair on the other side of the desk, pushing up the sleeves of his jumpsuit. He glanced at a clock to his right: 3 p.m. He'd been locked in that room for nearly four hours.

Mr. Little kept his head down for several long moments, making quick notes in a file, and then more notes in another file. Hanging over the cabinets, one corner curled up and torn, hung a poster of a space shuttle taking off with what Ryan presumed was a motivational line printed beneath it: "Dare to Dream. Create your future today."

Ryan dropped his eyes and found himself staring at the shiny bald spot in the very middle of Mr. Little's head. He quickly lowered his gaze back to the floor before he was caught.

"So," Mr. Little began, and Ryan continued to fix his eyes on a smudge on the floor, "what the hell did you think you were doing?"

Mr. Little was a fan of the tough love genre of discipline. Ryan had figured that out when he'd first met the man earlier in the week after being arrested. He had a fair amount of experience with these kinds of men: coaches or teachers who were convinced that kids like Ryan needed stern guidance and a heavy hand—although not exactly as heavy as someone like AJ—to "get back on track" and "make something of themselves." Those were their catch phrases. The problem was, they didn't know kids like Ryan. They didn't know anything at all about Ryan.

He kept his eyes glued to the floor during the lecture.

"What'd I tell you about fighting in here? It won't get you anything but trouble," Mr. Little said, and Ryan thought the disappointment in his voice sounded forced, like he really didn't care at all but was determined to make Ryan believe otherwise. "And why'd you have to go after Torres of all kids? That guy's got friends in here who're just begging for an excuse to wipe these halls with anyone's ass, and especially some scrawny white kid like you."

Ryan gritted his teeth and felt the muscles in his jaw grow tight, but he didn't blink, didn't look up. He hadn't wanted to fight that kid. He'd had no choice.

He could feel Mr. Little staring at him, trying to win some kind of reaction from him, but finally the man sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair, which squeaked under his weight. Mr. Little made a show of taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. He sighed again and leaned back toward the desk.

"Well, you're damned lucky, Atwood," he said. "I actually have some good news for you."

Ryan frowned at that and looked up, briefly meeting Mr. Little's eyes.

"You're getting out of here." Mr. Little must have read the confusion on Ryan's face, because he continued before Ryan could voice a question. "That family," and Mr. Little pulled another file toward him, flipping through a few pages, "the Cohens, they're taking you in."

Mr. Little kept on talking—about how Mrs. Cohen must have called in favors from several well-placed connections in order to get Ryan released so quickly, and how Ryan must have made quite an impact on the family to get the attention of such powerful people—but Ryan barely understood the words. He let his mouth drop open and his eyes felt frozen wide in surprise. He could hardly breathe. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know where this change of heart had come from.

Except, when he thought about it, he did know, and he didn't like the reasoning behind it. Mrs. Cohen thought she was indebted to him. She thought she owed him because he had "rescued" her from that other kid. Ryan couldn't let her think that. He owed them everything, not the other way around. Ryan blinked and swallowed thickly. His mouth felt dry and he really wanted a glass of water.

"Hey, Atwood, you all right?" Ryan jumped at his name and darted his eyes toward Mr. Little before dropping his gaze back to his lap, where he saw that his hands were clenched into fists again.

"Is there something wrong?" Mr. Little sounded truly concerned now. He lowered his head to try to meet Ryan's eyes. "Ryan, do you not want to go with the Cohens?"

"No," Ryan managed to croak. He swallowed and tried again. "No, no, it's great. They're great."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, no, they're great." Ryan didn't even attempt a smile.

Mr. Little studied Ryan for another moment, then leaned back in his chair and folded his heavy arms over his chest. "Okay then, let's get you out of here."

+++++

There were some papers to sign and Mr. Little offered a stern lecture that he probably delivered to every one of his outgoing delinquents, but Ryan felt numb and dizzy, and he concentrated only hard enough on the speech to be able to nod in all the right places. When the guard returned and Ryan stood up, he became lightheaded for a moment and blinked a few times to get his bearings. Mr. Little, head bowed over his desk and already focused on the next file, didn't notice. The guard didn't need the handcuffs this time, and when he reached out and touched Ryan's arm to guide him from the room, Ryan jumped and nearly yelped in surprise. His heart was racing and every part of him felt so tense he wondered if he'd be sore the next day. He took a deep breath and followed the guard through the door. His head was really starting to ache.

A short walk through mostly empty hallways and they ended up in the same part of the facility where Ryan had first been admitted. Through an open door, Ryan saw six boys in street clothes waiting in chairs, most of them sitting straight and nervous, two of them lounging as though they were in their own homes, watching TV. These were boys about to be processed into juvie. Ryan had been one of the nervous ones.

They stopped at the end of the hallway and the guard pushed open the last door.

"Your stuff's inside," the guard said. "Get changed and leave the jumpsuit in there. Knock when you're done."

Ryan stepped into the room and heard the door lock behind him. He was in a bathroom. A toilet and sink were to his left; to his right was a table, with a plastic tub on top that contained everything he had left in the world. It was barely bigger than a shoebox.

He peeled off the lid and winced as he was immediately assaulted by the bitter smell of smoke. Apparently his clothes hadn't been washed, and several days locked in a glorified Tupperware container hadn't helped. He sighed and dumped his boots and clothes on the table. His wrist cuff and choker fell out last. Ryan kicked off the lace-less shoes and popped open the buttons of the jumpsuit, shrugging it off his shoulders and past his hips until it puddled on the floor and he could step out of it. He wished putting on his own clothes made him feel better, more comfortable, but the pungent smell rolling off his jeans and shirt made him wrinkle his nose in disgust. The white T-shirt was still covered in dirt from when Luke had dumped him to the ground after pulling him out of the fire. He was just glad he hadn't bled all over it.

Ryan picked the jumpsuit up off the floor and folded it neatly before setting it in the plastic tub. He set the lace-less shoes on top and pushed at the corners of the lid until it was sealed in place. He was just snapping the wrist cuff back on when a knock came at the bathroom door and the guard asked if he was ready. Ryan slipped the choker into his jacket pocket and knocked back.

+++++

They were back in the heart of juvie, where the kids were huddled in groups, snarling and yelling at each other. Ryan rubbed at his wrist cuff as he was walked out of the detention center, past throngs of kids who hurled insults and laughter at him, but kept their hands to themselves. As he rounded the last corner and caught sight of Seth and Mrs. Cohen waiting for him at the end of the hall, he dropped his head. He didn't look up again until he was stopped before the last gate. He watched as it rolled open and Seth beamed at him. Ryan had barely walked two steps past the gate before Seth wrapped him in an impulsive hug. Ryan stiffened at the contact, involuntarily leaning back, away from Seth, unable to return the gesture. Seth released him without comment, then took a step back and offered a friendly, but shy, "hey." Ryan glanced up at his face long enough to offer his own quiet "hey" in return, then turned to Mrs. Cohen.

She was standing a few feet behind Seth, one hand clutching at her neck, the other arm crossed over her belly as though she felt sick. He saw her anxiety, saw her doubt, the way she tried to smile hopefully at him and came up short.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice quiet but earnest. He was caught off guard by her concern, and before he could stop it, he felt his eyes flood and his cheeks flush. He felt himself crumpling inside, felt his control slipping. He looked down at his feet, and concentrated on breathing and blinking away the tears.

"Yeah," he said, still staring at his scuffed boots. "Yeah, I'm-" he heard the way his voice shook and paused, frowning. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look up at her.

"Thank you," he said softly, before looking away again. He wanted to tell her she didn't have to do this. He wanted to explain that he hadn't attacked that boy to prove himself to her, or to make them want him again. She didn't have to take him home with her. But he couldn't bear the thought of going back inside, of returning to his bunk and those loud, horrible noises in the night that made it nearly impossible to sleep. He wanted to leave with Seth and Mrs. Cohen, and he hated that he needed them so badly right now.

"Let's get out of here," Mrs. Cohen said. She turned and led them outside. Ryan didn't look back.


	2. Chapter 2

****

Chapter 2

Ryan was momentarily stunned by the dazzling sunlight, and he paused just outside the doors of the detention center to squint at his surroundings, which seemed whitewashed and overexposed. He shielded his eyes and blinked away tears. Seth and Mrs. Cohen hadn't been as affected by the light and they were several paces in front of him before they realized he had stopped.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Seth asked, turning around to face Ryan.

"Nothing," Ryan said. He dropped his head and rubbed at his eyes before looking up again. Seth and Mrs. Cohen were still staring at him. He gave them what he knew was a weak smile and started walking again.

At the car Ryan settled into the backseat, behind the front passenger because he knew Seth would want to talk to him, and this spot would make conversation more difficult. He pushed himself into the corner, letting his head fall back against the plush seat cushion.

"Seatbelts," Mrs. Cohen called out and started the engine. Ryan obeyed.

Mrs. Cohen was still backing the car out of the parking space when Seth got started.

"Dude, what you did back there, that was, well, it was awesome. You were like all over that guy. The way you just jumped up and went after him, pinning him against the wall like that, and the punching, I've never seen anything like it. How'd you learn stuff like that, because, dude, it's insane. Like good insane, but insane."

The words were pouring out so fast that Ryan wondered how Seth's own mind could even keep up. Seth twisted around in his seat, trying to look at Ryan as he ranted, and was clearly frustrated by the lack of mobility. Ryan pushed himself further into the corner and didn't respond. A quick glance toward the front of the car and he saw that Mrs. Cohen was watching him in the rearview mirror. When she caught his eye, she immediately looked away, guilty.

"Seriously, dude, you have to teach me some of your moves. Yeah, when we get home-"

"Seth," Mrs. Cohen interrupted, her voice stern and amused all at once.

"What? Mom, did you even see what he did in there? He totally had our backs. It was awesome."

"Seth, I don't think Ryan really wants to talk about that right now."

"What? Hey, you don't mind, right?" Seth was turning in his seat again, craning his neck to look in the backseat.

"Fine, _I_ don't want to talk about it right now," Mrs. Cohen said. Ryan saw her eyes flash at him in the rearview mirror again. She smiled. "Why don't you put on some music."

Ryan tried to return her smile, but he couldn't force his mouth to respond and so he just nodded slightly and looked away. One of Seth's CDs—they all sounded the same to Ryan—pumped music over the stereo, and it was oddly relaxing, soft and warbling, the lyrics too quiet to make out. He shivered a little in the car air conditioning and was glad he'd left his jacket on, despite the smell. He pulled himself deeper into the jacket, until the collar was nearly at his chin, and leaned his head against the window. A patch of sunlight, no longer painfully bright, fell across his face and shoulders. He felt warm and sleepy, and he tried to ignore the headache growing behind his eyes and the nervous knot that still clenched his stomach.

He stared outside as they pulled onto the freeway, where the midday traffic was terrible and the cars were inching along. Ryan studied the other drivers, all of them trapped in their cars and trying hard to move forward to something better—the next exit, home, a late lunch. He was faintly curious about their lives, where they were headed and where they were coming from. A man in a faded black T-shirt let his arm dangle out the open drivers' side window, a cigarette playing in his fingers; he was singing along with the radio and thumping his other hand on the dashboard. A woman with black hair and too much makeup clenched the steering wheel of her two-door coup and kept tossing angry, frustrated glances over her shoulder, looking for openings in the traffic. Everyone seemed so unpleasant, so unsatisfied. Ryan let his eyes droop closed as Seth started talking again, and he folded himself into the heavy warmth of his jacket.

+++++

"Ryan? Hey, buddy, wake up. We're home."

Ryan snapped awake in the backseat. He had slipped so far down in the seat that his head was wedged against the bottom of the window. His arms were crossed snugly over his chest. He felt stiff and sore as he sat up carefully, wiping once at his mouth to make sure he hadn't drooled everywhere. He blinked at his surroundings. He couldn't believe he'd actually slept the entire drive back to Newport.

Seth, free of his seatbelt now, was turned all the way around and grinning at him over the top of the front seat.

"You're up," he said cheerily. "Let's go inside."

Ryan followed Seth toward the back of the house, moving sluggishly behind Seth's wide, nearly skipping stride. As they walked into the kitchen, Ryan rubbed at the back of his neck, frowning at the headache that seemed only to be pounding worse now that he had managed to sleep a little. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen, completely unsure of what came next, what was expected of him.

Mrs. Cohen was standing on the other side of the counter sorting through a small stack of mail. She smiled at Ryan, a real smile this time, and clearly being back in her own territory had returned some of her confidence. She was in charge here. She would tell him what to do.

"Did you have a good nap?" she asked, dropping the last of the mail back onto the counter. Ryan nodded and continued rubbing at his neck. "What's wrong?"

Again with the concern. He tried not to scowl and shrugged.

"Headache?" she asked.

"Yeah, a little," he admitted, letting his hand fall to his side.

Mrs. Cohen reached for her purse where it was sitting next to the mail and after a moment's search came up with a bottle of aspirin.

"Help yourself," she said, pushing the bottle across the counter. "Bottled water is in the refrigerator."

"Thanks," Ryan said. He shook two pills into his hand, then finally a third just in case, and set the bottle back down. He looked uncertainly at the refrigerator. It seemed strange, like prying, to look inside while they were standing there watching. After a moment's hesitation his dilemma was resolved when Seth walked behind him and poked his head into the refrigerator, coming out with a carton of juice and bottled water for Ryan.

"Here you go," he said, handing the water over. Ryan nodded his thanks and downed the pills. "So what do you want to do? Up for some Playstation? We could head down to the pier. Maybe hit the beach."

"Uh-"

"Seth, Ryan probably wants to get settled first, right?" Ryan blinked and glanced briefly at Mrs. Cohen. She smiled kindly at him, and he could read in that smile that she knew her son was overbearing and that all Ryan wanted to do was collapse and put this day behind him. He looked away before she could see how grateful he was. "There are clean clothes in the pool house. Why don't you change, take a shower if you like, and then we can figure out what to do."

Ryan didn't know what she meant by figuring out what to do, but clean clothes and a shower sounded just about right, so he pushed that last comment out of his mind and nodded agreeably.

"Yeah, sounds good."

The pool house was mostly just as he'd left it. In the corner, leaning against a wall where surfboards had once been stacked, he was pleasantly surprised to see his bike. He'd assumed it was gone for good, burned to ruin in the house fire or abandoned in all of the chaos. When he walked up to it and touched the handlebars, he saw that it was dirty from the smoke, but otherwise in good shape. He smiled and let his fingers run lightly over the cool metal frame before turning back to the bed.

In the middle of the bed was a stack of clothes. He recognized them as the only clothes he'd let Mrs. Cohen buy for him during his first stay at the house. Or actually, his second stay, after his mom had ditched him. Ryan hadn't taken the clothes with him when he'd run away, determined to break out without any help or charity. Now he was grateful that he'd left something behind. He slipped off his jacket and sweatshirt and kicked off his boots, picked up the bundle of clothes, and locked himself in the bathroom.

Ryan cranked up the hot water in the shower and had begun peeling off his clothes when he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the sink. He was momentarily stunned by his appearance. His eyes were red and swollen, and it looked as though he'd been beaten but he knew it wasn't from the fight that morning. He looked pale and sick, his cheeks pasty, his hair greasy where it fell over his forehead. His whole face seemed void of color, even his lips and his eyes, which seemed more gray than blue in the light. He wondered if this face was what made Mrs. Cohen look at him with that sad, kind smile.

Ryan turned away from the mirror and stripped off the rest of his clothes. He stepped into the shower, where the water was so hot that it immediately made his skin flush and burn. He turned his face up into the stream and let it wash over his eyes and nose and mouth.

Showering had been the worst part about juvenile hall. He had been allowed one five-minute shower a day, and while they got private stalls, there were two guards for every six boys, and the attention had made him feel sick and defenseless. The three showers he had taken had each lasted maybe one minute, just long enough for him to make one pass over his body and be done with it. The boys also had been allowed three trips to the bathroom each day, and any other visits had been granted only by request. Ryan had hated the humiliation of having to ask to go to the bathroom, of bathing while under guard.

Now, standing under the water in the Cohens' pool house, Ryan let his mind wander, steering it away from this time and place. He'd once loved the water. He could remember when he was very young, when they were still living in Fresno, and someone—a lifeguard at the YMCA? a neighbor who sometimes watched him after school?—had told his mom that Ryan was a good swimmer. "A natural," the woman had said. He'd been barely 6 years old at the time, but he could still remember the way that rush of excitement, of potential achievement, had thrilled through his body. Nothing had ever come of it, of course. At some point he'd even developed a mild fear of water, although he couldn't recall when or why.

Ryan turned off the water with a sharp twist of the faucet, remembered he hadn't even washed his hair, and turned it back on just long enough to finish the shower. When he got out, water dripping off his nose and down the back of his neck, he couldn't see himself in the mirror through the steam.

He dried off and tucked the towel around his waist then brushed his teeth, twice, and shaved. It felt like an incredible luxury. He finished dressing before the steam had cleared.

In the bedroom, he snapped the wrist cuff back on and fished through the pockets of his jacket for the choker. He tied it around his neck, ran a hand through his wet hair, and took a deep breath before heading back into the main house.

+++++

He smelled something rich and meaty in the kitchen as soon as he opened the back door, and his stomach rumbled painfully. It occurred to Ryan that he hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, after the incident in the cafeteria that morning and then missing lunch because of the fight.

"Feel better?" Mrs. Cohen asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table, papers fanned out in front of her.

"Yeah."

"You must be hungry. Rosa's making lunch." Ryan glanced to his right, where the Cohens' housekeeper was chopping what looked like tomatoes. She looked up at him and smiled.

"Uh, no, you don't have to-"

"Seth and I are starving," Mrs. Cohen said before he could finish. "We missed lunch too."

"Oh," Ryan said. He clasped his hands in front of him, rubbing at the wrist cuff and staring off to the side through the awkward silence.

"Did that happen in the fight?" Mrs. Cohen said. Ryan frowned, and she touched a spot on her own neck. "The bruise. Did that boy do that to you?"

Ryan turned his head the other way, so she wouldn't have to see.

"Yeah, no. Uh, not really. It's fine."

"Maybe we should put something on it. I've got some Neosporin in the bathroom. It might get infected."

"No, no, it's nothing," Ryan said. He wished he'd stayed in the pool house. Mrs. Cohen stared at her papers for a moment, and he could see her mouth twitching and her forehead crinkling in thought. She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear, then looked up at him and smiled.

"Okay," she said. "Seth's playing video games. He's supposed to be grounded, but he was so excited about you coming back…" she trailed off, lifting her hands in surrender. "You should join him. Rosa can bring out your lunch when she's done."

Ryan glanced at Rosa in the corner and nodded. In the next room, he saw Seth sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking very much like he had the first time Ryan had seen him. Seth nodded when he came in and scooted over on the floor to make room. Ryan collapsed on the couch instead, pulling a throw pillow into his lap.

"You want to play? I can put on Tony Hawk. Or Mortal Kombat. I got Red Faction just last week, so I'm not even good at it yet. You might have a shot at beating me."

"Nah, finish your game," Ryan said. "We'll play when you're done."

"You sure, man? 'Cause I don't mind. It's more fun two-player anyway."

Ryan just waved his hand in response, and Seth shrugged and turned back to his game. It was Grand Theft Auto again. Ryan found the game strangely relaxing, considering it revolved around beating up other characters, stealing cars, shooting cops and racing around on high-speed chases. Aside from the cop-shooting, Ryan realized he'd basically lived this game. There was something soothing about watching all of that happen from a distance, in a fictional universe where there were no consequences and no one really got hurt.

He sank back into the cushions and watched the game distractedly, focusing just enough to keep his thoughts from wandering anywhere else. The sounds from the game—the music, the squeal of tires, the shooting, the screaming—faded to a dull white noise, and he blinked heavily. Ryan was asleep in minutes.

+++++

Ryan woke up disoriented and afraid, not sure where he was. He blinked his eyes open slowly, staying very still as he tried to remember where he was. He was lying down on his side, a pillow clutched to his chest, a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. On the floor in front of him, his head bobbing excitedly, was Seth. Ryan sighed in relief and closed his eyes again.

He couldn't remember falling asleep, much less stretching out on the couch—with his boots still on, he realized—and grabbing a blanket. As he let the confusion clear from his sleep-fogged head, Ryan noticed that Seth had muted the television. He opened his eyes again and saw that the lights were on in the room now, which meant it must be dark already. He wondered how long he'd been sleeping. He settled his eyes on the back of Seth's curly head again.

Seth must have felt Ryan staring, because he turned away from his game and grinned.

"Hey," he said eagerly. "You're really Mr. Excitement today. Way to keep me entertained."

"Sorry," Ryan said sheepishly.

"Hey, no problem. You've gotta be pretty tired," Seth said. He turned back to the television and paused the game. Ryan sat up slowly, tilting his head from side to side to work out any aches and stretching his arms in front of him. He yawned silently and rubbed his eyes. When he looked up again, he saw that Seth had turned around to face him, but was staring at his hands in his lap.

"So, uh, it must've been pretty rough, in juvie, I mean." Seth glanced at him uncertainly. Ryan didn't know what to say. Seth hadn't asked a question, but he was looking at him expectantly, like he was waiting for an answer. Ryan couldn't tell him about the constant noise, and the energy that had gone into simply keeping as quiet and small as possible. The way he had been watched, all the time, by the other kids and the guards. That horrible feeling of being trapped in every way. Of being unable to think, and unable to stop thinking at the same time.

He managed a mild shrug and looked away.

"You don't have to tell me about it, unless you want to, which you probably don't," Seth went on. "I'm just, well, I'm glad you're home."

Ryan jerked at that word and set his eyes on Seth. Home wasn't something he wanted to think about now. Seth couldn't understand that either.

"Yeah," Ryan said, but it came out as a whisper.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, Seth rocking back and forth a bit, Ryan studying the blanket that had fallen around his waist.

"So, you're probably pretty hungry," Seth said. "Lunch, or dinner now, I guess, is in the kitchen. Mom said you should just reheat the soup in the microwave."

"All right," Ryan said. He pushed the pillow and blanket to the side and stood up. Outside he could see that it was well past sunset. Someone had even turned on the lights in the pool house. He made his way to the kitchen and, after a slight hesitation, opened the refrigerator to find a plate with a sandwich and a bowl of soup. He left the soup and grabbed just the plate, snatched a napkin from the table, and made his way back to the other room, where he sat on the floor next to Seth.

Seth had cranked up the sound on the television again, and he let Ryan eat in peace while he focused on the video game. He'd switched to some kind of shooting game while Ryan had slept.

Ryan was halfway through his lunch-dinner when he heard someone calling to Seth from the front of the house. Mr. Cohen was home.

"Seth, what did we say? No video games." The words dropped off as Mr. Cohen walked into the den and saw Ryan and Seth sitting on the floor. "Oh."

Ryan found suddenly that the food in his mouth was dry and sticky, and he forced himself to finish chewing and swallow. Mr. Cohen stared thoughtfully at him for a moment. Mrs. Cohen hadn't told him. He hadn't expected to find Ryan here. The realization made Ryan feel slightly nauseous, and he looked down at his feet, away from Mr. Cohen.

"Hello, Ryan," Mr. Cohen said, and Ryan could tell that the cheer in his voice was forced. "Nice to have you back."

Ryan glanced up long enough to offer the best smile he could muster, and then picked up his sandwich, as though he planned to continue eating. Mr. Cohen stood in the doorway a few more seconds and then walked away. Ryan dropped the remaining sandwich onto the plate.

"Hey, did you see that?" Seth said, excitedly pointing at the television with one hand. "I totally nailed that guy in the back. Did you see the way the blood busted out of his forehead? That was awesome."

"Yeah, man," Ryan muttered, staring at the space where Mr. Cohen had been standing. Ryan stood up with his plate. "I'll be right back."

"Yeah, okay," Seth grunted, his attention back on the game.

Ryan walked back toward the kitchen, pausing just outside the room when he heard Mr. and Mrs. Cohen talking nearby, trying to keep their voices low.

"He couldn't stay there. But he can't stay here. We've got to find his mother," Mrs. Cohen said, her voice tense and urgent.

"He doesn't want to find her."

"He's a kid," Mrs. Cohen said, louder now. "He doesn't know what he wants."

Ryan stepped into the kitchen, into their line of sight, eyes on the plate in his hand.

"So I guess I won't unpack," he said. He felt both of them turn and look at him. He risked a glance at them, saw what he thought was guilt or shame on their faces.

He'd never expected them to keep him there, to want him in their home. He hadn't asked them to take him in—not when he'd called Mr. Cohen after his mom had kicked him out, not when his mom had left him with only a note, not when he'd attacked that kid in juvie. But it still hurt.

And they were wrong. He did know what he wanted. But what he wanted and what he was going to get were two very different things, and no one seemed to understand that but him.

"Ryan-" Mr. Cohen started, but Ryan didn't let him finish.

"No, it's okay," he said. He crossed into the kitchen, tossing the rest of his sandwich in the trash and rinsing his plate off in the sink. When he turned around, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Cohen standing together at the counter, watching him, both searching for the right thing to say. They didn't need to bother.

"I'm pretty tired," he said. "Thanks for the dinner. And, you know, for everything."

"Ryan…" Mrs. Cohen said, but she closed her mouth when she couldn't figure out how to finish.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said. "'Night."

He turned and walked away before either of them could respond, Mr. Cohen's "goodnight" coming just as he closed the back door.

Ryan entered the pool house in a daze, trying hard not to think about the conversation he had overheard. He stood in the middle of the room, taking in all of these surroundings that he was sure he could never get used to—the sculpture in the corner, the flower arrangement on the table at the end of the bed, the heavy sheets and feather pillows. His eyes stopped at the bed. His dirty clothes, which he'd folded neatly and laid on top of the comforter, were gone. In their place were only his lighter, a half-empty pack of cigarettes and his wallet. Everything that had been in his jacket pockets. He wondered if Mrs. Cohen would have thrown out his dirty, smoke-stained clothes while he'd slept. It didn't much matter; she'd probably assumed they were ruined. Ryan picked up the pack and shook a cigarette into his hand, twirling it in his fingers as he tried to decide where he could go and smoke in private.

There was a knock on the windowed door of the pool house, and looked over his shoulder to find Mrs. Cohen stepping in, her arms full of folded clothes.

"We'll have to dry-clean your jacket," she said, setting the clothes on a chair near the door. "At least now you'll have something clean to wear, for the next few days."

"You didn't-"

"I know," she said. Mrs. Cohen stood up straight and studied him for a moment. Her hair was pulled back, fine strands of it sticking out at odd angles around her face and making her look softer than usual. Ryan looked away.

"Ryan," she started, and trailed off. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her pulling at her hands again, toying with the ring on her finger. "We only want what's best for you. We want you to be with your family."

'Where you belong,' he finished in his head. This home, these people, they weren't his life. They never could be. He knew that. He nodded slowly for her, staring at his wallet, at his clean clothes, at the cigarette in his fingers, anywhere but her face.

"You really should quit," she said. He frowned and looked up at her at that. She nodded her chin toward the cigarette. "They're so bad for you. You're too young to ruin your health like that."

He was too young for a lot of things, but he didn't say that. He stuffed the cigarette back into the pack and tossed it on the bed.

"Dinner's in about 30 minutes. You should join us, if you want."

Ryan shrugged and slid his hands into his pants pockets. "I'm not real hungry."

"Okay," she said. "Well, let us know if you need anything."

"You've done more than enough," he said gently, and he meant it. "Thank you."

Mrs. Cohen nodded, opened her mouth as though she wanted to say more, and walked out with one last smile. When she was gone, Ryan sat heavily on the end of the bed. He reached for the cigarettes, paused over the pack, and then folded his hands in his lap instead.

In front of him, the soft orange light from the pool house bounced on the surface of the swimming pool, making the water look warm and inviting. He glanced toward the main house, which also looked warm and inviting. Mr. Cohen was setting something on the table, and Ryan thought he could see his mouth moving, talking to someone in the kitchen.

He sighed and rubbed his hands together. He felt caught now, stuck somewhere between the horrors of juvie and the warm promises of the Cohen home. Ryan lay down and rolled onto his side, his back to the main house. He switched off the bedside lamp, and in the darkness he thought he'd never been so uncertain of where he was going, of where he'd end up. He wasn't locked up anymore, but he was hardly free.

-End


End file.
